The End
by Love Like Homicide
Summary: Shizuo finally caught Izaya, but the end didn't feel how he'd imagined it would, now he has a few things to come to terms with as he figures out what to do next. DARK, oneshot, ooc, Shizaya.


**My first attempt at a Durarara! fanfiction, it didn't turn out how I'd planned (at least, what little I'd planned), so please be kind. Pretty sad, kind of out of character, but all in all I think I'm happy with it.**

 **\- Author**

* * *

 **The End**

Shizuo POV

It's cold out, but I can barely feel it. The streetlights seem dimmer than usual and I find myself unable to see more than a metre or two in front of my face, it doesn't bother me though, nor do the fresh raindrops I can feel falling on my shoulders. I can hear the wind brushing past my ears, but nothing seems able to shake me from stupor. There's blood on my shirt and a dead man lying in the alley behind me, and that's the limit of what my mind can process right now.

I'm vaguely aware that it's probably nearing two a.m., and we're in a more suburban part of Ikebukuro, meaning there's no one out on the streets but us, and there probably won't be for at least another few hours. That's good. I should have enough time.

I take a few deep breaths before pulling a cigarette out of my pocket and attempting to light it with shaking hands. Eventually I manage, shutting my eyes and inhaling the nicotine, doing my best to focus on the disgusting bitterness in my mouth instead of the disgusting crime scene behind me. I can't bring myself to look back, I know I'm going to have to eventually, but I just can't bring myself to do it now. It's way too soon. I haven't figured out what I'm going to do with the flea yet, but I keep hoping that I have enough time. I can't let anyone find him here like this.

I don't want to move the body. Touching it and feeling the coldness of his skin and the stillness in his chest would make it too real. I know it's selfish of me to be thinking like this when I'm the one who caused it, but I can't help myself. I didn't want this to happen, and I don't want to believe it's my fault. But sometimes I lose myself in the moment.

I chased him because I enjoyed it, and I believed he did too. Why else would he keep coming back? I played the role of the enemy because that's what he wanted me to be, and while he pissed me off to no end, I never really wanted to hurt him. Trying was just part of the fun. He understood me better than anyone else, and he went out of his way to make sure my attention was on him and only him. Like an incurable disease, he was always there. He was unshakable. No matter the reason, he cared about me, showing a sense of devotion I didn't even get from my closest friends. A weird kind of obsession, one that gave me an undeniable ego boost. And, even though I told myself it was creepy, deep down I was touched. I never held back with him, because I didn't believe he could break. No matter how hard I hit him (on the rare occasions that I actually could) he always came back in a matter of days, giving me that same noxious grin and practically begging for more.

He was my equal. I really thought we were equal. I really thought he could catch whatever I chose to throw at him. I never stopped to consider that we are both human beings, and that humans have their limits. My limits are different to rest of humanity's, him included.

The cigarette falls from my lips and I don't stub it out, not because I don't want to, but because I don't trust my legs not to give way if I try. I can't do this. I consider calling Shinra and asking him for help, I know he has experience disposing of bodies so it wouldn't be an unreasonable request, but I can't. It would feel wrong. I don't want anyone else to see him like this (especially not one of his friends).

I turn my head slightly, trying to sum up the courage to assess the damage, but I don't get past the first sight of blood before I'm on my knees and heaving my guts up onto the footpath in front of me. I'm mildly surprised that I even have anything left to throw-up, considering there's another decent sized puddle formed against the wall of a nearby building from earlier tonight. Still on my knees, I turn again, determined to find a solution before anyone finds out what I've done.

All I can make out from the darkness is his arm, covered with the sleeve of his fur-trimmed coat, and a lot of red. Red stains everything, dying all of his clothing and most of his skin; crawling closer I see that red stains the side of his face too, and it matches those glassy, dark crimson eyes. Seeing those unblinking eyes overwhelms me, and I startle myself when I hear a sob, having not even realised I was crying. Letting the circumstances fully sink in, I allow myself to breakdown. I lay my hands on either side of his face, not caring that blood is getting on them, and look straight into those eyes for the first time. 'I'm sorry.' I sob out, only vaguely aware that I'm the one speaking. 'I didn't mean it. I'm so fucking sorry. Please Izaya, I didn't want this. I didn't mean it. Please come back.' As the last words leave my mouth, watery and distorted by my hazy state of mind, I know my resolve.

I scoop him up in my arms as gently as I would a child, and stumble out of the alley. I'm not sure if anyone sees us like that, as I walk all the way home in a daze, but I can't bring myself to care either way. It's not like it would matter much at this point.

I kick down my apartment door as quietly as I can before stumbling into the bedroom. I lay him down on the bed and pull the blanket out from under him, using it to cover him up to his neck, successfully hiding all of the more serious wounds. I head into the kitchen next and pull out what's left of the milk, sculling it. It makes for a decent enough last meal.

Moving back into the bedroom I lay down next to the flea, gently sliding my hand under the blanket and into his jacket pocket, pulling out the switchblade that I knew would be there.

I can't go on like this, knowing I've killed someone so prominent in my life. He was one of the few constants, someone who always showed up exactly when I needed him to, eyes expectant and mouth curved in that ever-present smirk. Someone who I could blame for my troubles, taking the burden off of my own shoulders and those around me. Someone who distracted me from those very same troubles without ever being asked. He was the quintessential enemy, and one I now know – as much as I'm sure he'd hate to hear it – I need. So what else am I supposed to do?

I lean in close to him, inhaling deeply what I can of his distinct scent, before plunging the knife, as hard as I can will myself to, deep into my own throat.

It didn't hurt as much as I'd expected it to, but then again I don't exactly have a normal body, so my pain tolerance has always been higher than most. What pain there is hits instantaneously, quickly fading into a warm throbbing, before turning icy cold, neither of which are uncomfortable when compared to my growing need for oxygen. My throat begins to gurgle and my vision starts to warp, first going white around the edges before completely blurring. My hands fall from the knife as I lose feeling in my arms, then my chest, then finally the rest of my body.

It's the end, and I welcome the darkness, I welcome feeling numb, and I welcome death. Ultimately, I hope it's enough to atone for what I've stolen from him, and he'll be willing to meet me again on the other side.


End file.
